Straw rustling everywhere.
Candle-stumps solemnly stare.
Across the nocturnal vault of the church,
moans and muffled words go drifting.
There is a stench of blood, filth, rot, sweat.
Dressings ooze under torn uniforms.
Clammy, trembling hands and ruined faces.
Bodies rest propped upright but their dead heads loll.
In the distance the battle thunders on.
Day and night, groaning and grumbling.
To the dying, waiting patiently for their graves,
it must echo in their ears like the voice of God.